


Fortune's Fool

by Haunted_Obsidian



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, breakdown - Freeform, vulnerable Dylan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haunted_Obsidian/pseuds/Haunted_Obsidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in between "Caleb" and "Check-out". </p><p>His world had always had cracks in it. Tiny, thin little slivers that criss-crossed his vision, proving that nothing in this life was perfect. But the moment he’d heard the words, "He can’t help it, it’s his dad", all those minute, spidery cracks split apart even further, leaving huge, gaping holes in his vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune's Fool

His world had always had cracks in it. Tiny, thin little slivers that criss-crossed his vision, proving that nothing in this life was perfect. But the moment he’d heard the words, _He can’t help it, it’s his dad_ , all those minute, spidery cracks split apart even further, leaving huge, gaping holes in his vision. The world that was dark before had taken on a whole new shade, something akin to the bottom of a deep abyss, where no light could be seen.

Time came to a sudden standstill, and Norma’s words continued to bounce around in his head. His breath stilled in his chest, as well as his brother’s fists that had been flying at him. “Caleb is his dad.” And all he could do was stare at her, eyes wide and full of shock. Dylan continued to lay there motionless until he could take it no more. Norman had already stood up and made his way over to Norma, gangly arms encircling the woman, holding her tight as tears continued to pour down her cheeks. 

A strange sort of numbness spread over his limbs as he pulled himself up, not even bothering to chance a glance at his mother and brother. Moving mechanically, he didn’t even make a move to grab his jacket that he’d carelessly tossed on the couch upon his entry into the house. Instead, he did what he did best and left, exiting out the front door and closing it behind him.

The rocks crunched underneath his boots as he walked to his truck, throwing the door open and hopping inside. He slid the keys into the ignition and started the Ford F-350, peeling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. 

He needed alcohol and a shit-ton of it. 

It didn’t take long for Dylan to find himself at the closest bar, some place called _Esmerelda’s_ , a dive joint tucked along a quiet side street from the main road. He turned off the truck and made his way inside, managing to ignore everyone else in the place (though there honestly wasn’t that many), and took a seat at the bar. 

“What’ll it be, son?” the bartender asked, and Dylan just stared at him for a moment, stuck on the man’s last word. 

“Uh, bourbon, and leave the bottle,” he finally replied. 

He played with his sleeves as the older man by at least twenty years eyed him up and down with an eyebrow raised before reaching for a glass and an amber colored bottle from behind the bar. “Bad day?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Dylan muttered as he took the bottle and filled the glass three-quarters of the way full. The label told him that it was cheap, but he didn’t really care. As long as it got him good and drunk, that was all the mattered.

He was on his third glass and finally getting a good buzz on when someone sat down on the stool next to him. “I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like.”

Suddenly, he found himself nervous, twisting the glass back and forth in his hands, unsure of what to say. He shrugged in response to the other man’s question, chancing a glance in his direction. The guy appeared to be in his thirties, muscular and tall with brown hair and green eyes. “Tom,” the man said, holding his hand out for Dylan to shake. He was hesitant at first, but eventually the alcohol allowed him to reach over and connect with Tom’s hand. “Dylan,” he responded as they shook. His grasp was loose, while Tom’s was quite firm. 

“So what were you fighting over? A girl?” Tom asked with a wink while motioning for the bartender. “Scotch on the rocks,” he ordered, his gaze falling back to Dylan.

Dylan shook his head, and took a long gulp from his glass. “No, I-me-me and my brother got into it is all.” He downed the remaining contents of the glass, and poured himself some more, hands less than steady.

“Ah,” Tom answered, ice cubes clinking as he took a drink from his own glass. “I’ve got a few of those myself. Older or younger?”

“Younger,” Dylan replied, cheeks growing more pink with each drop of whiskey he consumed. 

A mutual silence fell between them before Tom spoke again. “Whatever it was, it must sure have you pretty upset. I gotta say though, none of my brothers have ever gotten me riled up as bad as you obviously are.”

“You don’t know my family,” the words slipped from Dylan’s lips, and his face grew even redder, heat spreading across his cheeks. He hated that alcohol gave him such a loose tongue, but at least the pain that was buried deep inside him was being held at bay. That was something. 

“No, I don’t. But I’d sure like to get to know you.”

A loud laugh escaped his from the confines of his throat that time, and he shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think you do.” He went to reach for his wallet to pay for his tab when suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, fingers wrapping securely around his bicep. “Hey-“ he began, but was cut off by the other man. 

“You’re obviously in a lot of pain, kiddo,” and now Tom’s lips were ghosting against his ear, sending chills up and down his spine. 

“‘M fine-“ he tried again, words starting to slur as the bourbon finally hit him, and damn, did it hit him hard. 

“Why don’t you let me help you?” 

Dylan froze at that. Help? He knew the definition of the word, but it didn’t exactly exist in his vocabulary. He wanted to laugh at that. Laugh so long and hard that his throat was raw and sore, because no one ever _helped_ Dylan Massett. One by one, anyone that he’d ever known had watched him fall and pick himself back up without ever lending him a hand. Drunkenness got the best of him, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “And how exactly can you _help_ me?” His eyes were glazed as he looked over at Tom, the other man’s expression making his heart beat faster. 

“C’mon,” Tom replied, standing up and gently pulling Dylan up with him. Dizziness hit Dylan as soon as he was on his feet, and it took a few seconds for him to feel Tom’s hand on the small of his back, helping to steady him. 

“Where-where’re we going?” he inquired, trying desperately to make his mouth move properly, but his lips kept insisting on sticking together. 

Tom didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled a few bills out of his wallet and laid them on the counter. 

“I can pay for my own drink!” Dylan spat out, annoyed at the other man’s charity. 

“Never said you couldn’t. But you look like you could use a break tonight,” Tom explained, and started to lead Dylan away from the bar. 

“Yeah, well, I hope you paid for the whole bottle,” he muttered, reaching back and grabbing it. He took a swig from the half-empty container, not paying attention to the fact that Tom’s fingers were still grasping his arm and leading him towards the back entrance instead of the front. “This-this isn’t the way out.”

“Wow, you’re really wasted, aren’t ya kid?” Tom threw over his shoulder as he lead the younger man out the back exit. 

The chilly night air felt good as it hit Dylan’s face. It made him momentarily forget about the fact that they were now in the alley behind the bar. He started to lift the bottle again when unexpectedly, he felt the other man’s lips on his. The kiss was strong and crushing, bruising almost. 

To say the least, he was stunned, but instead of pushing away like every brain cell in his head was telling him to, he felt his lips moving in rhythm with Tom’s and found himself kissing the other man back. His mind drifted, thoughts of bad decisions and drunken idiocy floating to the surface, but he soon became acutely aware of being pressed against a wall and heat spreading through his groin. His arms hung limply at his sides, one hand still holding on to the bottle he’d wanted so badly to drown himself in. 

One of Tom’s hands gently caressed his cheek while the other went to his side. He could feel cool fingers sliding up the inside of his shirt and across his stomach, and the heat that he felt before continued to spread like wildfire throughout his body. A small voice in the back of his mind kept telling him how _wrong_ and _bad_ it was, that he was most definitely being taken advantage of and he was _nothing but a dirty little whore, just like your mother_ , but the other part of his brain that was currently soaked in alcohol allowed him to tune it out. 

He’d forgotten how different it was to kiss a man. He’d always been gentle with the girls he had been with, unless they asked for something more, but even then…he could never let himself hurt one of them. Men however, that was a whole other story. He’d let himself get hurt numerous times on that front.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Tom murmured against his lips, then went back to kissing him, planting his tongue firmly into Dylan’s mouth. He soon felt his belt being unbuckled, and his heart sped up even faster. The hold he had on the bottle loosened considerably, and faintly, he heard it clatter to the ground. “You’re gonna be okay, I’m gonna make you okay,” Tom added with a smile as he pulled away from Dylan’s lips and lowered himself to his knees. Dylan let out a breath as Tom pulled his pants and boxers down past his thighs. With clouded eyes, he watched as the older man took his cock into his mouth, lips and tongue gliding over it and inhaling him down. Dylan closed his eyes as the wetness came and went, finally allowing the building to hold him up because he wasn’t sure his legs could anymore. He was on the verge of coming when he felt Tom’s hand slide up between his legs, tickling his balls before sliding further back and locating his entrance. Dylan couldn’t help but tense up as the finger prodded at him, gradually gliding in to Tom’s knuckle. He whimpered as one finger became two, and two became three, and the next thing he knew, he was facing the wall, Tom’s dick entering him with spit as its only lubrication. 

His hands instantly shot up as he braced himself against the wall, the bricks turning the tips of his fingers and palms a rust colored orange. Tears prickled at his eyes as he allowed himself to be fucked hard and fast. He felt his knees begin to buckle, it all becoming too much, when a strong arm wrapped around his waist and held him up. No words were exchanged between the men. The only thing Dylan heard were the low grunts coming from Tom, and the pathetic mewls that were making their way past his lips. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, hating the fact that he actually liked the feeling every time the man managed to hit his prostate. 

Within minutes, he felt his balls tighten up before he came, decorating the wall with his bodily fluid. It wasn’t much longer before Tom was too, as deep inside of Dylan as he could go. 

The other man pulled out of him, the arm that had been around his waist disappearing. Sounds of a zipper being pulled up met his ears, and the noise, as quiet as it was, drew him from his reverie. He felt a hand gently pat his back, and then he heard the sound of boots echoing off the pavement, and disappearing back into the bar. He stayed still for a moment, the urge to vomit hitting him almost immediately. He took in a deep breath, and choked the bile back down, wincing as he pulled up his pants. 

He was a fucking mess if there ever was one. 

_You’re nothing but a filthy whore, a disgusting little inbred piece of shit_. 

The pain that he’d been managing to hold back was threatening to escape, and he knew once it did, there would be no holding back. 

_How could anyone in their right mind_ ever _love you?_

He felt his eyes begin to water, because deep down, he knew he was right. 

Ignoring the pain that shot through his body, he reached down and picked up the bottle, thankful that there was still some substance left in it and that it hadn't broken into a million little pieces when it had slipped out of his hand earlier. He immediately downed as much as his throat could take, the burning sensation it left in its wake traveling down into his chest. Somehow, he managed to make it back into his truck without falling, though the feat was not an easy one. Knowing all too well that he shouldn’t be driving, he stuck the keys in the ignition and took off. 

A song he couldn’t quite recall the name to was blasting on the radio, talking about _blue hotel...life don't work out my way_ , and he just laughed at the words, tears prickling at his eyes.

He wasn’t quite sure how he was able to accomplish it, but he made it back into the motel parking lot without getting pulled over or causing an accident. His gaze fell on the house that loomed above him, the moonlight only highlighting its creep factor. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going back in there tonight. 

He turned off the engine, not exactly in a parking space, but he didn’t really give two shits about how he was parked right now as long as he was faced away from that hellhole. The only thing he cared about was emptying the rest of the bottle’s contents. He leaned back in the seat and tipped the container up to his lips, relishing the burn that traveled down his throat to his chest. 

Thoughts and memories of the past began to bubble up to the surface, and in his sluggish state, he finally realized why his mother had hated him all these years. And could he really blame her? It wasn’t bad enough that he was the product of rape, no, he was the product of incestial rape. 

It all made sense now.

All those many years ago, when he was barely just a toddler, he could remember how often she’d refuse to look at him, hardly ever held him either. He was usually left to his own devices on a blanket somewhere. And God, when Sam came into the picture…

He’d had enough scars from that man to form the fucking Big Dipper along his flesh. 

All this time, he thought it was because the man wasn’t really his father, but now he wondered if he hadn’t known too. Of course, he would’ve been disgusted. Who wouldn’t have? 

_You shouldn’t even be alive, let alone exist. Fucking disgusting abomination._

“No,” he whispered, voice breaking as he shook his head. His vision blurred as his eyes began to water, so he took another long swig from the bottle. It didn’t help though. The pain was beginning to spread throughout his chest, and along the rest of his nerve endings. 

_And you thought Norman was bad. He doesn’t even hold a candle to you. At least his father wasn’t your own fucking uncle!_

A sob finally broke free from the confines of his throat, and the tears that he’d kept at bay for so long traversed the expanse of his cheeks, falling onto his lap. He punched the roof of the truck a few times, knowing full and well that even though he didn’t feel the pain right then, he would tomorrow morning. Eventually, the tears stopped and somewhere along the line, he passed out, but not before vomiting all over himself, his reflexes too slow to get the window down before the alcohol came back up.

And that’s how Emma found him the next day, covered in his own sick and hanging partially out the window.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :) This is the first story I've written in a very long time, so forgive me for the rustiness. Oh, and the song mentioned on the radio is called "Blue Hotel" by Trentemøller. 1


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